'And you want me to run my eye over it and lick it into shape a little?' asked Mark.
'Not quite that,' said Holroyd; 'it must stand as it is. What I'm going to ask you is this: I don't know any fellow I would care to ask but yourself. I want it published. I shall be out of England, probably with plenty of other matters to occupy me for some time. I want you to look after the manuscript for me while I'm away. Do you mind taking the trouble?'
'Not a bit, old fellow,' said Mark, 'no trouble in the world; only tying up the parcel each time, sending it off again. Well, I didn't mean that; but it's no trouble, really.'
'I dare say you won't be called upon to see it through the press,' said Holroyd; 'but if such a thing as an acceptance should happen, I should like you to make all the arrangements. You've had some experience in these things, and I haven't, and I shall be away too.'
'I'll do the best I can,' said Mark. 'What sort of a book is it?'
'It's a romance, as I said,' said Holroyd. 'I don't know that I can describe it more exactly: it——'
'Oh, it doesn't matter,' interrupted Mark. 'I can read it some time. What have you called it?'
'"Glamour,"' said Holroyd, still with a sensitive shrinking at having to reveal what had long been a cherished secret.
'It isn't a society novel, I suppose?'
'No,' said Holroyd. 'I'm not much of a society man; I go out very little.'